


A Subtle Love

by MaryRoyale



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hermione Smut Round Nine Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5413145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryRoyale/pseuds/MaryRoyale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaise Zabini has loved Hermione for half of his life, but due to the war he has never felt comfortable revealing his feelings for her. After he acquires a genuine DA coin, he gets the opportunity of a lifetime, and he grasps it with both hands. Submission for Round 9 Hermione Smut on lj. Hermione/Blaise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was my submission for Round 9 of Hermione Smut on livejournal. I received prompt #13- The war is over, and has been a while. Anything the Golden Trio has ever touched is fetching a fortune in the collectibles market. Somehow one of the DA coins got into the hands of a man who is very interested in Hermione, and he realizes that she has never let hers go, a fact he uses to his advantage.
> 
> Auntie_L who is amazing in every way was the beta for the whole story.

From the first time she had seen it, as a scared teenager, Pansy had loved the Zabini villa on the Tuscan coast of Italy. It had large, airy rooms filled with ancient vases, antique furniture, and priceless works of art. Blaise liked to joke that his family had collected beautiful things for a very long time. Pansy couldn't really argue with him there. The villa always seemed warmer and more comforting than the Parkinson Manse. Her own home had always felt dark and oppressive. Then again, her father had probably been a large part of that. She shook off those painful memories and focused on the wizard that had just entered the room.

“Pansy, you look as ravishing as always,” Blaise complimented her as he moved towards her. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “To what do I owe the splendor of your company?”

“I got it,” she said quietly.

Blaise became completely still, and his eyes focused on her face. “No one knows that I was the bidder,” he murmured.

Pansy rolled her eyes at him. “Of course not, Blaise. I’m not an idiot.”

“Of course not,” Blaise agreed immediately. He stared at her for another long moment. “Well?”

Pansy smirked at him. Then she slipped a small velvet box out of her pocket and placed it on the coffee table in front of her. Blaise’s fingers hovered above it before he took the box and opened it. She could barely make out his soft sigh, but she could easily see the way his hand was shaking as he carefully stroked the contents of the box with one finger.

Why a client engaged her services was none of Pansy’s business. Honestly, Pansy could care less. All that really mattered was that she was paid her fees, and Blaise always paid the fees and a little extra. She wasn’t sure if that was just how he did business, or if it was because he was her friend. Pansy didn’t feel like examining that too closely so she turned her attention back to Blaise.

“It’s real?” He asked.

“Yes,” Pansy replied. “They had a signed affidavit from the seller, and they had a couple DA members there who tested it to make sure that it was real.”

Blaise turned sharply to look at her. “Not--,” he began, but Pansy shook her head.

“No, she wasn’t there.” Pansy clasped her hands in her lap and watched Blaise for a moment. “You know… I could always--,”

“No,” Blaise interrupted her forcefully. He shook his head. “No,” he repeated in a softer voice.

“What’s the point then?” Pansy demanded. “You’ve mooned over her for _years_ , Blaise. Why go to all this trouble if you’re never going to _do_ anything about it?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Blaise muttered.

“Explain it to me,” Pansy insisted. “Help me to understand.”

“I--,” Blaise flushed and shook his head. “She would never look at me. Not that way.”

Pansy snorted in disbelief. Blaise had always been one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen. He had been the reluctant subject of gossip and teenage fantasy with his high cheekbones and his startlingly blue eyes and the lovely dark caramel colour of his skin. The idea that anyone wouldn’t be attracted to him was laughable. Then again, Gryffindors had a tendency to do things that boggled the mind.

“Then she’s the thickest witch of her age,” Pansy snapped.

Blaise gave her a half-hearted glare.

The Slytherins had all known the truth—Blaise might sleep with someone, but they would never touch his heart. He’d given that away years ago to the most inappropriate person possible. A half-blood, a Muggleborn, or even a Muggle mistress tucked away in some tidy little flat would have been acceptable; some mysterious woman that Blaise might visit out of the sight of polite society… why even a wife couldn’t object to that. But this… the so-called brightest witch of her age, best friend of the Saviour of the wizarding world, the self-appointed champion of house-elves and werewolves… it was _de trop_.

“Drop it, Pansy,” he muttered.

“Consider it dropped,” Pansy retorted. She picked up her things and left.

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

 

Nestled in the silk interior of the velvet box was a genuine galleon from Dumbledore’s Army, or rather, not a _genuine_ galleon because Dumbledore’s Army hadn’t used genuine galleons. Still, it was a genuine _Dumbledore’s Army Galleon_ , and that was what counted.

The end of the wizarding war had raised a keen interest in anything to do with Dumbledore’s Army or the Golden Trio. A large market had developed around buying and selling items that had belonged to Dumbledore’s Army, and if an item could be proved to have belonged to one of the Golden Trio, then its value increased by at least ten times.

Years of paranoia and distrust had fueled Blaise’s desire for anonymity, and when it came to these sorts of auctions, it had served him well. No one outside a small circle of friends knew about his little obsession, and he always used a third party to make any purchases. If any of the auction houses had realized that Blaise Zabini was bidding, they would have figured out a way to drive the price even higher, knowing that he would be able to pay.

 _She_ had touched this coin once when she had made them for the DA. His finger hovered above the coin before carefully stroking the edge of the coin; it was a clever reproduction that appeared genuine at first glance. It was only after a closer examination that one realized that this was not an actual galleon.

The coin grew warm under his finger, and Blaise pulled it back in surprise.

 _‘Leaky’_ appeared across the face, and Blaise noted that the striking date numbers had rearranged themselves to the current date and a time for later in the evening. Blaise could feel his eyebrows creep up his forehead.

Someone was arranging to meet at the Leaky Cauldron later that night.

Should he go? He could sit at one of the booths with a Notice-Me-Not charm, and wait to see who was meeting. Curiosity swirled through him and he stared at the coin thoughtfully for several minutes. Finally, he nodded to himself. He would go.

 

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

 

Finding a secluded booth at the Leaky was simple enough, and his subtle Notice-Me-Not charm was even simpler. Blaise leaned back against the booth’s seat and eyed the current population of the Leaky Cauldron with a speculative eye. He didn’t really see anyone that he recognized from Dumbledore’s Army, but it was early yet. He sipped slowly at his grappa and watched the doors.

Fifteen minutes before the time that was listed on the coin, Harry Potter burst through the doors. He nodded to Hannah at the bar and then chose the booth right behind Blaise. A tendril of excitement curled through his belly. _It had worked!_ The galleons still worked, and someone was still using them. If Blaise had harbored any doubts—Harry Potter showing up in the Leaky Cauldron at the appointed time alleviated all of them.

Cautiously, Blaise took another small sip of his grappa, and thanked all the little gods for pushing Potter to choose _that_ booth. Ten minutes later, when _she_ walked through the door, Blaise gripped his grappa tightly and focused on reinforcing his Notice-Me-Not charms.

“Hermione, thanks for coming,” Potter muttered. He rose and kissed her on the cheek before directing her to sit across from him.

Hermione’s bushy hair brushed the back of Blaise’s neck and the heady scent of jasmine teased his senses. He froze in place, unwilling to move and break this fleeting contact.

“Have I ever missed one of our dinners?” Hermione asked with a light laugh.

“No,” Potter admitted.

Hannah bustled over and took their orders. Blaise listened eagerly, taking careful note of Hermione’s order.

“How is the Auror Department?” Hermione asked once they were alone.

“About usual,” Potter muttered.

“And Mr Malfoy?” Hermione teased.

“Malfoy is fine,” Potter growled at her.

“You haven’t tried to kill him yet this week?” Hermione asked.

Sitting with his back to the booth put Blaise at a slight disadvantage. He had a feeling that Hermione was teasing Potter, but without seeing her face, he wasn’t sure. He could hear Potter grind his teeth and suppressed a shudder at the sound.

“Has the ferret said that I have?” Potter growled.

Hermione laughed. She was definitely teasing him.

“No, he hasn’t, or at least he hasn’t filed any complaints this week. Perhaps he finally understands that you _aren’t_ trying to kill him,” Hermione murmured.

“Too much planning,” Potter grumbled. “And after… the paperwork you would make me complete would be a nightmare.”

“True,” Hermione agreed.

Silently, Blaise listened to the two friends speak to one another with a warm familiarity.

“What’s bothering you?” Potter asked quietly.

Perhaps not facing Hermione was fine. He couldn’t see her expression, but he could feel her grow tense and try to shrug.

“Nothing,” she muttered.

Potter snorted. “Pull the other one,” he said in a flat voice.

Blaise could hear the both of them shift and he suspected that Potter was leaning forward and taking Hermione’s hand in his. It was the sort of thing that Blaise would do for the few women that he counted as close friends. All right, fine; it was the sort of thing he might do with Pansy and maybe Draco just to piss him off.

The sudden coolness on the back of his neck left him feeling strangely bereft, and he realized that Hermione was leaning forward as well. He concentrated on being very still, and not attracting attention.

“It’s stupid,” Hermione huffed quietly.

“It’s you,” Potter retorted. “I highly doubt that _it_ , whatever it is, comes remotely close to stupid.”

“I… I thought I was fine,” Hermione said in a soft, sad, almost-broken sounding voice that made Blaise long to make someone, somewhere, suffer for causing. There was a soft hitching noise that made Blaise clench his hands into fists and then she continued to speak. “I mean… we’re over. Thank Merlin we’re over because I probably would have killed him. I don’t want _him_. I mean… God, this is harder to explain than I thought.”

“Take all the time you need,” Potter encouraged her softly. “I’m not going anywhere, love.”

“It’s just… why not me? Why aren’t I the one that… why not _me_?” Hermione rambled helplessly.

“But… you don’t want him,” Potter protested.

“No. Not him. The… the… the rest of it.” Hermione made a frustrated noise.

“I’m not following,” Potter muttered.

“I’m going to be 30 this year,” Hermione offered. “I just thought that… by now… it would have been me. That somebody would have wanted that... with me.”

“Oh, _love_ ,” Potter murmured. “There are blokes out there that would kill for the chance to be with you.”

Blaise suppressed a sigh. Potter was right, damn him. Maybe not _kill_ , exactly, but definitely willing to do things that most people might consider morally ambiguous.

“Well, where are they?” Hermione huffed indignantly.

Potter laughed, but he cut off abruptly and gave a muffled oath. Blaise could only assume that Hermione had kicked him under the table.

“Look, Hermione. You hide yourself away in those horrible little offices of yours,” Potter explained. “No, don’t give me that look. We both know it’s true. And when you aren’t hiding in your offices, you are hiding behind your title. You push people away.”

“It seemed safer,” Hermione muttered.

“It is safer, but it makes it harder for people to date you,” Potter countered. “What about this… why don’t you let us set you up on a few dates?”

“ _You_?” Hermione demanded incredulously.

Potter snorted again. “I know some guys,” he defended himself. “Nice people that might want to take you out. And Neville was saying that there’s someone in his Herbology Mastery course that has mentioned you a few times.”

“Oh.” Hermione was quiet for several long moments. “That might… yeah. That might be okay.”

That was most definitely _not_ okay. Blaise had been willing to deal with Hermione’s puerile fascination with Weasley because it had been a difficult time for everyone. He had suffered through watching their on-again-off-again romance interspersed with wizards who had little to distinguish themselves from one another, secure in the knowledge that none of them had been good enough for her. But this… this was different. Blaise sipped at his grappa and scowled at the booth seat in front of him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

There were several restaurants on Diagon Alley and its immediate environs, but Hermione hesitated to go on a first date in any of them. The very last thing she needed was for the Daily Prophet to have a front seat to the desolate wasteland that masqueraded as her current love life. Her date for the evening had been willing to meet in Muggle London at a nice, quiet little restaurant that was fairly close to the Ministry of Magic.

“Miss Granger, fancy bumping into you this evening.”

Hermione turned around and found herself face to face with Blaise Zabini. The years had been kind to him—he was even more beautiful than he had been in school, if such a thing were remotely possible. Ridiculously white teeth flashed against the warm caramel of his skin as he smiled at her, oozing charm from every pore.

“Mr Zabini,” Hermione murmured. She gave him a weak smile. “What are you doing here?”

Another warm smile. “I’m supposed to be meeting a business associate for dinner. And you?”

“I… I’m… the same,” Hermione blurted out quickly and then flushed.

The Maître d’ moved forward with a bow and led Zabini off to his table. Hermione lingered anxiously in the waiting area for several more minutes, waiting for her date to show up.

“Perhaps sir has been detained?” The Maître d’ suggested gently. “Madam might prefer to sit down and have a glass of wine, compliments of the house, while she waits?”

Hermione blinked. “Oh. I. Yes, that sounds lovely, thank you,” she managed to get out.

“If madam will just follow me?”

The Maître d’ skillfully wound his way in and out of the tables in the restaurant leading her to a cozy, quiet corner. There was a small empty table, but at the table next to it sat Blaise Zabini, who was leaning back in his seat and watching her with those impossibly blue eyes of his.

Within moments, a waiter had hurried out and poured her a glass of wine. Hermione sipped at it experimentally. It was rich, delicious, and thick. It sounded absolutely mad—but the wine had this smooth, buttery feel as it slid down her throat. She hummed appreciatively closing her eyes in enjoyment.

“You love good wine,” Zabini observed from his table.

When Hermione turned to look at him she would almost swear that there was an appreciative gleam lurking in the depths of Zabini’s eyes.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“My family has a vineyard,” Zabini said. He tilted his head slightly and watched her. “I will send you a bottle.”

“Oh. No, that isn’t necessary,” Hermione protested.

Zabini shrugged with a careless grace that Hermione envied. “Of course it isn’t,” he agreed. “That is why I want to do it.”

Really, what could Hermione say to that without sounding like a prat?

“That would be lovely,” she murmured.

“You look beautiful in that gown,” Zabini observed after another moment. “Your… business associate… is very lucky.”

Hermione could feel heat rise in her cheeks. For the most part, she refused to give in to all of the people who encouraged her to wear mascara and smile more, but for tonight she had given it a chance. It wasn’t compromising her principles, she had argued with herself. It was more like… like birds. She was using her plumage to display her readiness to… to… build nests together, or something. Maybe the bird analogy wasn’t the best, especially when one considered that it was usually the male birds who displayed exotic plumage. For Merlin’s sake, why was she talking to herself about birds? Zabini was going to think she was an idiot. Zabini! He had spoken to her. She really ought to say something.

She shrugged stiffly. “It seemed appropriate, considering the venue.”

Zabini gave another careless shrug. “I understand. It is why I wore this suit.”

The clean, elegant lines of the suit Zabini was wearing hugged his figure, emphasizing his broad shoulders and his lean waist. Hermione wondered if he had ventured out to Muggle London to purchase it, or if he’d had it made somewhere on Diagon Alley.

“It’s a very nice suit,” Hermione murmured dutifully. _Wasn’t that the sort of thing one ought to say_? Zabini arched a brow at her as though he sensed her confusion and she flushed. “Very… very flattering.”

“Are you still working in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?” Zabini asked.

Hermione shook her head. “No, um, I transferred to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. How did you know I worked for the DRCMC?”

Zabini waved a hand. “I have friends at the Ministry.”

“Of course.” Hermione took another sip of her wine. People like Blaise Zabini had friends everywhere.

“How are you finding the DMLE? Do you enjoy your work there?” Zabini probed gently.

Hermione watched him over the rim of her wine glass. Was he asking because he was genuinely interested? Was he hoping to dig up dirt on her? She took another sip of her wine and put down the glass. She could feel a drop of the wine clinging to her upper lip, and without thinking about it she caught it with her tongue. When she looked at Zabini again his eyes were fixed on her mouth.

“I suppose that I do,” Hermione allowed. “It’s still a very new post, so I don’t have everything down just yet.”

“Of course,” Zabini agreed. He tilted his head slightly. “It appears as though my business associate is unbelievably late, which means that your… business associate is late as well. May I join you at your table? Perhaps we could discuss their shocking rudeness over dinner?”

Hermione gasped and looked at her watch. Zabini was mostly correct. It had been at least a half an hour, which was beyond late. The only problem was that it hadn’t just been some business associate. It had been a date… her first ‘real’ date in forever. The rejection of being stood up stung a little. Hermione wanted to go home, take a long bath, and sulk, but she couldn’t do that without Zabini finding out what had happened. She swallowed nervously and nodded.

“Yes, that would be lovely,” she said quietly.

After the appetizers, the soup course, and partway through the entrée Hermione realized that she hadn’t thought about her missing date once. Zabini had kept up a steady stream of genuinely curious questions about her work interspersed with witty banter. Threaded through all of that was a light, teasing flirtation that Hermione supposed was so natural to Zabini—like breathing—that he honestly didn’t realize he was doing it.

“What are you hoping to achieve at the Ministry?” Zabini asked her.

“I… I want to do some good in the world,” Hermione whispered and then blushed. Perhaps she shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine. Normally, she would never have admitted that to anyone—least of all to Blaise Zabini.

Zabini nodded thoughtfully a look of speculation on his handsome features. He took another sip of his own wine.

“You’ll need help,” Zabini warned her. “The Ministry is too large for any one hero to slay it—no matter how clever or wise or… beautiful.”

Hermione flush grew deeper. “I’m not beautiful,” she protested.

Zabini snorted at her and gave her a slow, lazy smirk that set her teeth on edge.

“You pretend not to care about beauty,” he corrected her drily. “You do nothing to take care of yourself, to make yourself pretty, but it isn’t because you aren’t. If Fourth Year taught you anything, it is that you have the capacity for beauty. You are able to conform to society’s standards, but you choose not to do so.”

“I don’t have to sit here and listen to you–,” Hermione growled. She put her napkin on the table and made to stand.

Quicker than she might have imagined possible, Zabini’s hand was about her wrist. It was not clamped on—he wasn’t hurting her in any way—but there was a steady pressure making her all too aware of his presence.

“You reject beauty,” Zabini continued in a quiet, serious voice that commanded attention. “Not for its own sake, but because you don’t want that to be the only way people judge you… the only way they see you. You want people to see you as intelligent, capable, determined, fierce, loyal, and brave.”

Hermione sagged in her chair. “Yes,” she whispered.

The hand encircling her wrist suddenly let go, and Zabini leaned back in his seat. The slow, lazy smirk was back, but Hermione wasn’t fooled. She doubted that she would ever be fooled by it again.

“There is nothing wrong with making your own choices,” Zabini said softly. He gave her a self-deprecating smile that twisted something in her chest. “But one must be prepared for the consequences.”

“Are you threatening me?” She demanded in a hissing whisper.

Zabini shook his head. “Never,” he said flatly. “I merely warn you that for every decision you make, there are consequences. Be careful, Miss Granger.”

When the dessert arrived, something heavenly and chocolatey that complimented their wine perfectly, Hermione picked at it listlessly. Their dinner had been going really well. She had enjoyed herself. Hermione had managed to forget that she had been stood up.

Now all she could think about was the Ministry of Magic and choices and consequences. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Zabini was beautiful; Hermione knew that, but she had never thought about that being a conscious choice for him. He wore his beauty as a shield, no, as a distraction. Zabini misdirected and obfuscated with his charm and his too-bright smiles. Hermione wondered what he hid beneath the beauty.

Hermione took a small bite of the chocolate confection and let it melt on her tongue.

“Who would I… who would want to… help?” Hermione struggled to ask.

Zabini gave her another one of those careless shrugs, but Hermione ignored that. That was just inveiglement. Instead, she paid attention to what he did not say and what he did not do. The silences were more informative and more truthful.

“It would be impossible for me to know every witch or wizard who might wish to help you,” Zabini said with an air of apology.

_I know of a few specific people. Some of them would be helpful to your plans, but some would try to stop you._

“Of course not,” Hermione murmured, automatically all of her focus on not-listening to Zabini.

“Still, I’ll keep my eyes open,” Zabini allowed with another of his shrugs that conveyed nothing and everything.

_I will steer one or two people in your direction. It will be up to you to decide if they’ll be a help or hindrance._

“I appreciate that, Mr Zabini,” Hermione said quietly. A dull throb was beginning in her temple, causing her to wonder how people could think like this all the time?

Through some subtle signal—perhaps a flutter of an eyelash or a subtle change in her scent—Zabini realized that he was pushing her too far, and he immediately retreated. He flirted and teased and managed to steal the last of her desert. The smirk on his lips as they closed around her fork should not be half as attractive as it was.

“Thank you, Miss Granger,” he purred at her.

“For letting you steal my dessert?” She demanded indignantly.

Zabini chuckled. “No, for making the best of an unpleasant evening.” He paused and watched her for a moment. “It was… nice.”

“Oh.” Hermione pressed her hands to her wine-flushed cheeks. “You’re welcome. I had a lovely evening as well.”

When the waiters discreetly began to take their plates, Hermione tried to ask for the cheque. One of the waiters bowed deeply.

“There is no need, Madam. The bill has already been settled.”

Hermione didn’t attempt to argue to create a scene. Instead, she frowned at Zabini, who studiously ignored her. What purpose did paying the bill serve? Was this one of those silences she needed to listen to, or ought she ignore it? A low, dull throb pounded at her temples.

“Thank you,” she said at last.

Blaise tilted his head slightly and watched her for a moment. Then he nodded and gave her one of the flirty smiles.

“It was my pleasure, Miss Granger,” he replied.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

It was difficult to keep things fresh and inventive without becoming repetitive, but Blaise tried. For Hermione’s second blind date, Zabini cast an obscure social skills curse on her date. When Hermione appeared willing to overlook that, he bribed a waiter to add a drop of Veritaserum to her date’s wineglass. Once he began telling her how he really felt—about witches, equality with sentient beings, and everything else—Hermione dumped her wine on his head and left.

Unfortunately, Blaise couldn’t count on all of Hermione’s dates to be complete tossers. Some of them, at some point, had to be somewhat decent—it was an arithmantic probability. Blaise cursed and let his head fall back against his headboard.

“I’m fucked,” he muttered under his breath.

“Actually, darling, you are as far from fucked as I’ve ever seen you,” Pansy drawled as she sashayed into the room. She paused and arched one perfect brow at him. “Unless this is some sort of new kink you’re trying? Tell me this is some kind of new kink—it’s so much better than the alternative.”

“Pans, what the bloody hell are you talking about?” Blaise demanded irritably.

“Ooh, cursing?” Pansy laughed and shook one slim finger at him. “You must be upset. I’m talking about your distressing obsession with Granger, what else?”

“It isn’t an obsession,” Blaise muttered. He absolutely did not pout at Pansy.

“Why can’t you lust after some nice, normal witch like Daphne or Adrian Pucey’s sister Honouria?” Pansy continued.

“I don’t want nice or normal,” Blaise snapped.

“Well, you definitely get your wish with Granger,” Pansy sighed. “Now, what’s the matter?”

“Granger wants…,” Blaise faltered and grew silent. He felt uncomfortable revealing Hermione’s emotional weaknesses to Pansy.

Pansy frowned at him. “What does Granger want?”

Blaise sat up and stared intently at Pansy. “If I ever even think that you’ve disseminated this information indiscriminately with an eye to hurting her… they’ll never know what happened to you.”

Pansy blinked. “Merlin’s balls, you love her.”

Blaise glared at Pansy. “Granger wants to settle down.”

“Oh dear.” Pansy eyed him with what looked suspiciously to Blaise to be pity and his glare intensified.

“That’s why she’s been dating all those wizards,” he explained.

“But that’s not working?” The pity became more obvious.

“I think I need to do something different,” Blaise agreed. “She needs contacts in the Ministry. People who can help her achieve her goals.”

“That’s simple. Just ask Millie,” Pansy said with a shrug.

“Pansy, darling, I know that Millie is your best friend in the entire world, but you _do_ remember that she isn’t very fond of me, right?” Blaise reminded her.

Pansy smirked at him. “Perhaps you ought not to have slept with her brother. At his wedding.”

“ _He_ propositioned _me_ ,” Blaise growled.

“It was still utterly embarrassing,” Pansy reminded him. “And that bride of his went to punch you and got poor Millie instead. Stupid slag broke her nose.”

“I apologized. Profusely. On my knees,” Blaise snapped.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Pansy offered with an airy smile.

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

“Madam Granger, do you have a moment?”

The courtesy title was still just new enough that Hermione had to stop herself from looking around wildly for her mother. She looked up, her expression schooled to cool serenity—or as close as she was able to muster, anyway. The witch in the doorway appeared vaguely familiar, and it took Hermione several long seconds to place her.

Thick black hair was pulled back into a serviceable chignon, and sharp blue eyes watched her carefully. The robes were perfectly tailored, and flattered the witch’s fuller figure. The witch stood perfectly still without the foot-shuffling and muffled coughing that Hermione was used to from the Aurors.

“Of course… Miss Bulstrode,” Hermione said at last, relieved that she had finally placed the witch standing in front of her.

“The cafeteria is unutterably vile,” Bulstrode observed with a delicate shudder. “I usually eat lunch at that little café around the corner.”

Hermione stared at her for a moment. “I’ve heard the food is good,” she replied.

Was it possible to convey that a person was stupid with just the twitch of one’s robes? Hermione suspected that it might be if Bulstrode’s body language was anything to go by. Finally, Bulstrode sighed and assumed a put-upon expression that Hermione recognized; Malfoy got the same expression on a fairly regular basis and Hermione had privately labeled it his “Merlin save me from idiotic Gryffindors” look—it never failed to piss Harry off, and Hermione was beginning to sympathise with him.

“Would you come to the café, today, and have lunch with me?” Bulstrode said slowly and distinctly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at Bulstrode. “I believe I’m free today,” she offered carefully.

Bulstrode nodded. “Good. See you at noon.”

The café was small and intimate. Bulstrode was already seated and sipping at a cup of tea. When Hermione sat down, Bulstrode set down her cup and focussed her attention on Hermione.

“What do you want to do?” Bulstrode asked bluntly.

Hermione blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was brought to my attention that you need contacts, but if I don’t know what you need them for, I can’t really connect you with the right people,” Bulstrode explained with an air of barely concealed frustration and impatience.

A half-remembered, wine-fueled conversation drifted through Hermione’s mind. Blaise with his too-bright smiles and his smooth voice had done a verbal tap-dance around the subject.

“I… I want to do some good in the world,” Hermione’s lips whispered before her brain could stop them.

Bulstrode recoiled, flinching back from Hermione. “You want to… do good,” she muttered her lips curling in distaste.

“Yes… no. I want to change things,” Hermione said slowly.

Bulstrode eyed her suspiciously. “Change _what_ things?”

Hermione sighed heavily. “I’m not sure.” She gave a slightly hysterical giggle. “I had plans, you know. I made lists. But now… I’m not sure if it would actually help or make things worse.”

Now Bulstrode was watching her with pity.

“Change takes time,” Bulstrode explained slowly. “Sometimes decades. You would have to be patient… subtle.”

“I can be subtle,” Hermione muttered. Bulstrode just looked at her. “I could learn,” she amended with a scowl.

“You might need to deal with people that you don’t like.” Bulstrode gave her a pointed once-over and a bland smile.

“We aren’t in school anymore,” Hermione countered. She longed to say that she and Harry were the only ones who had stood up for Malfoy when he’d joined the Aurors, but she suspected that Bulstrode probably already knew.

“No, we aren’t,” Bulstrode agreed. She watched Hermione for several long minutes. “Same time next week?”

Hermione had the feeling that she had just passed some sort of test. “That would be lovely.”

 

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

 

“Hermione, wanna grab lunch in the cafeteria with me and Malfoy?” Harry asked cheerfully.

Malfoy trailed behind Harry with a familiar put-upon expression on his pale face. Hermione had gotten to the point where she was receiving fewer of those looks from Bulstrode, which she counted as progress of a sort. She blinked at Harry and frowned.

“No, I’m sorry, I can’t,” Hermione said. She glanced at the charmed organizer on her desk. “I’ve got lunch with Theodore Nott.”

“You’re having lunch with Theo?” Malfoy’s voice rose incredulously and he stared at her in surprise.

Normally, Malfoy avoided speaking with almost everyone in the DMLE—if he could help it. Whenever he was forced to speak, it was always cool, calm and polite. Malfoy was a poster boy for being ‘professional’. Genuine emotion from him was nonexistent.

“He’s working on a proposal for the Wizengamot,” Hermione explained. Malfoy’s shock and surprise melted into thoughtful and vaguely suspicious.

“So this isn’t a date?” Harry demanded.

Malfoy seemed relieved that Harry had asked the question.

“No, of course not,” Hermione told him with a frown. “It’s purely professional, and even if it weren’t—he’s seeing someone, I believe.”

“Who?” Harry snapped.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “None of your business, Harry Potter.”

“But–,” Harry protested.

“Potter,” Malfoy muttered and Harry shut up.

Hermione shot him a grateful look.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I can’t be late. Mr. Nott is fanatically punctual,” Hermione said with a falsely bright smile at both of them before she sailed out of her office.

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

 

“You need a secretary,” Bulstrode announced. She took another dainty sip of her tea and eyed Hermione with a faint air of distaste.

Back in school, Hermione would have assumed—would have _known_ —that Bulstrode didn’t like her because she was a Muggleborn. A _Mudblood_. Now, Hermione knew better. She had no idea why Bulstrode found her lacking. It could be because she was a ridiculous Gryffindor who was always being too honest, too loud, too forthright, too emotional. It could be because Hermione wanted to give power to the powerless. It could be because Hermione was untidy and haphazard. Maybe it was all of that. Maybe it was something completely separate.

Despite the fact that Hermione felt as though she were somehow disappointing Bulstrode on a daily basis, she trusted her. Bulstrode got results. She was damn good at what she did.

“Fine,” Hermione agreed. “Who would you recommend?”

There it was again; that faint hint that Hermione had done something unforgiveable. Dealing with Slytherins on a regular basis gave Hermione a tension headache.

“What sorts of qualities would you want in a secretary?” Bulstrode countered.

 _Loyalty_. _Discretion_. _Intelligence_. Hermione leaned back in her chair and nibbled on her lower lip. A secretary could be dead useful, or a major liability. Did she know anyone that she trusted enough to be that close to her? Maybe Percy, but he had received a promotion after the war that he enjoyed very much.

“Ernie MacMillan,” Hermione said slowly.

Bulstrode tilted her head and got a thoughtful look in her eyes. Then she gave Hermione an almost non-existent smile and a tiny nod.

Finally, Hermione had done _something_ right. Now if only she knew what that something was.

 

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

 

“Mr Zabini,” Hermione said with a smile. “What a coincidence that we should run into each other.”

The exorbitant bribes that Blaise gave most of the restaurant managers on Diagon Alley assured that it was no coincidence. He had pulled back on his plan to seduce Hermione away from her dates. Instead, he had attempted to seduce her with power. It wasn’t until Draco had pointed out, far more sarcastically than was called for, that he was trying to woo a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin.

“You are looking well, Miss Granger,” Blaise purred at her. When she held out her hand he automatically turned it over and pressed a light kiss to the inside of her wrist.

A soft gasp drew Blaise’s eyes to Hermione’s. She was staring at him in surprise, her lips parted. He let go immediately when she tugged on her hand. Blaise straightened and assumed his playboy persona. He flashed a charming smile at her.

“What brings you here this evening, Miss Granger?”

“I had a date,” Hermione sighed. “But the Maître d’ has informed me that he was unavoidably detained by a work emergency.”

“Would you allow me to keep you company until your date arrives?” Blaise offered with another smile.

“That would be lovely, Mr Zabini,” Hermione said with an answering smile.

They were seated in a quiet corner of the restaurant and their waiter immediately brought over a bottle of wine. Hermione blinked in recognition when she saw the label. It was from the Zabini family vineyards.

“Thank you, by the way,” Hermione said quietly once the waiter left. “For the bottle of wine, I mean.”

“It was my pleasure,” Blaise replied.

“And thank you for the... the help,” Hermione added after a moment of silence between them. She looked up at Blaise and there was a curiously vulnerable look in her eye.

“That, too, was my pleasure,” Blaise said softly. He didn’t bother to lie to her with false smiles or charm. He rewarded her honesty with his own.

Hermione stared at him for a moment. “Mr Zabini...”

“Please, call me Blaise,” he murmured.

“Blaise,” she repeated and her cheeks turned pink. “If you will return the favor and call me Hermione.”

“It will be my honour,” he told her, and then smiled when her flush deepened.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

 

At different, random points, small gifts were sent to her office—all of them without a note, but Hermione knew that they were from Blaise. There was the little bag of pistachios, the small box of perfect figs, the box of little honey cakes stuffed with dates, and a box of some kind of little almond cookies. She couldn’t help the paranoia that had her performing a number of spells to make sure that it was safe. Somehow, she didn’t think that Blaise would be offended.

 

The only thing that confused Hermione was the fact that Blaise never did anything more. Had she read the situation incorrectly? Hermione had been positive that Blaise was engaged in some sort of convoluted flirtation with her. Confused and uncertain, Hermione approached the only source of information she had.

 

“What does food mean?” Hermione blurted out one afternoon when she was having lunch with Millicent Bulstrode who had recently asked Hermione to call her ‘Millie’.

 

Millie stared at her for a moment and then looked down at her sandwich. “Food?”

 

“I mean... what does it mean if someone sends you food?” Hermione rephrased the question.

 

Millie’s brows rose and she leaned forward. Concern and unease flickered in her eyes. “You didn’t eat it?”

 

“I tested everything,” Hermione defended herself. “And I knew who sent the bottle of wine.”

 

“Oh.” There was a wealth of meaning in that soft exclamation. Millie eyed her appraisingly and then gave a small shrug. “Food is... safe. It is what a gentleman sends when he is uncertain how his suit might be accepted.”

 

“How do you...,” Hermione faltered and her cheeks turned pink.

 

Millie snorted in amusement. “Just tell him. If he’s trying to court _you_ —he knows how you are.”

 

Hermione watched Millie for a moment. “If it isn’t rude of me to ask... how did you let Mr Nott know?”

 

A slow, smirk curved Millie’s lips. “I sent Theo a spelled puzzlebox that was so complex it took him months to unravel. If he guessed wrong, it would hex him.”

 

“That sounds like something I would do,” Hermione muttered to herself.

 

“There is no set response, Hermione,” Millie assured her. “It usually depends on the parties involved. My mother was a Ravenclaw, and she wore Slytherin green at a function she knew my father was attending while wearing a complex corsage made of Forsythia, Ivy, and Corn Straw.”

 

“Anticipation and agreement,” Hermione murmured to herself.

 

Millie nodded and graced her with a tiny smile. “Just so.”

 

 

 

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

 

 

A small, neatly-wrapped package set on Blaise’s desk. He stared at it with a focused intensity that was disturbing. There was no note. The wrapping was nondescript and offered no clues. The only thing stopping him from opening the package was the delicate tendril of hope that curled in his chest. This couldn’t be what he thought it was—and yet the hope that it was what he thought it was froze him in an agony of indecision.

 

“What is that?” Pansy asked as she entered the room. She frowned at the package and then turned to Blaise. “Well?”

 

“I’m not sure,” he muttered.

 

“Blaise, darling,” Pansy said in a gentle voice that made his hackles rise. “Do you want me to open it?”

 

Blaise sighed and slumped in his chair. “Please,” he muttered.

 

Pansy reached out to touch the package, and shrieked when she was zapped with a mild Stinging hex.

 

“What the bloody hell, Blaise?” Pansy demanded before she began to suck on her thumb.

 

A smirk flitted over his lips and he reached out to the innocuous-looking package. He turned it over in his hands slowly.

 

“Apparently, it has been spelled so that only I can touch it safely,” he muttered.

 

“Obviously,” Pansy snapped.

 

Carefully, Blaise undid the knot and pulled off the string before he unwrapped the package.

 

“It’s a book,” Pansy said flatly.

 

That tendril of hope bloomed in his chest. He lifted the book and inhaled deeply. The scent of old, rare book filled his nostrils. Blaise opened it eagerly and flipped through the pages. A slow, pleased smile curved his lips.

 

“What? What is it?” Pansy demanded.

 

“It’s love poetry,” he murmured. “It’s written in the African Romance dialect that was used in Tunisia.”

 

Pansy eyebrows rose in surprise. “She knows your mother’s family is from Tunisia?”

 

“I may have mentioned it,” Blaise said with a shrug.

 

“Right,” Pansy drawled. Blaise _never_ spoke to anyone about his mother.

 

Blaise scowled at her. “We were discussing spell creation,” he snapped defensively. “She was wondering if everyone used Latin—even non-European countries—and I explained that my mother’s family was from Tunisia, which had actually been a part of the Roman Empire, and had its own Latin dialect.”

 

“Merlin help us,” Pansy huffed and tossed her hands in the air. “You two deserve one another.”

 

Blaise’s smile grew.

 

 

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

 

 

Playing the deep sorts of games that Slytherins excelled at was exhausting. Hermione had done her best, but in the end she discovered that she was too impatient to wait. No doubt that Millie would consider it a shocking character flaw, and further proof that Hermione was a ‘hopeless Gryffindor’, but Hermione didn’t really care anymore.

 

The London offices of Zabini Holdings, Ltd. practically reeked of wealth, power, and influence. Hermione pushed the door open and slipped in quietly. Hermione knew about places like this; as long as she looked as though she belonged, no one would think to question her. She moved forward purposefully — looking neither to the right nor the left. Thankfully, the receptionist was busy arguing with a wizard who wanted to speak to ‘someone in charge.’ Hermione deftly moved to the lift and slipped into it before anyone noticed her.

 

When she exited the lift, the hallway was a mind-bending contradiction of sumptuousness and understated elegance. Her feet made no noise on the thick, plush carpet as she moved toward the end of the hall. All offices were designed in a similar manner, with the huge corner office that had fabulous views going to the boss. Hermione had no doubt that Blaise had that office.

 

“Blaise, darling, how long do you think you can keep this up?” A familiar voice drifted out into the hall and Hermione froze. _Pansy Parkinson_.

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Blaise’s deeper voice replied.

 

“I can’t even imagine how much it’s costing you to bribe every single restaurant in London for the last few months,” Pansy continued in a bored drawl. “And Millie… if she ever finds out that _you’re_ the one that wants Granger… she’ll tell Granger _everything_.”

 

The happiness that had buoyed Hermione for the last two weeks crumpled. Her heart pounding in her ears, she pushed the door open and slipped into Blaise’s office. Pansy had her back to the door and she was leaning against a wall gracefully. Blaise was pacing in front of his desk—tension and energy barely leashed in every lean muscle. Blaise ran a hand over the top of his head.

 

“She can’t,” he growled at Pansy. “Hermione and I… she’s open to my suit,” he burst out.

 

“She’d be an idiot if she weren’t,” Pansy snapped. “Still, you need to tread carefully if you don’t want this to blow up in your face. If she finds out that you’ve sabotaged every single date she’s had since Potter decided to get her married off…”

 

“You did _what_?” Hermione’s voice rose to a shriek and both Slytherins turned to stare at her with matching expressions of horror.

 

Slytherins were still pools, nothing happened on the surface and everything was arranged and rearranged under layers of intrigue. Still, there had been those brief moments where Blaise had allowed her to see behind the mask. He had shown her the hidden vulnerability that no one else was privileged to see. She had felt _special_. Chosen. She had thought that… well, obviously she was wrong. Her heart broke as she struggled to breathe.

 

“Granger,” Pansy spoke and Hermione turned to stare at her.

 

Perfect Pansy Parkinson, Hermione had hated her at Hogwarts with her sleek black bob and her beautiful clothes. Knowing that _Pansy_ was behind all of this made Hermione’s blood run cold. Had it been a joke? Was this some kind sick, fucked-up _game_?

 

“Hermione,” Blaise whispered and Hermione turned to look at him against her will. His impossibly blue eyes were huge in his face and there was naked fear there.

 

“No,” she hissed pointing a finger at him. “You don’t get to do that. Not to me. Not anymore.”

 

“Hermione.” His voice broke on her name and it sounded like a plea. He took one step toward her and Hermione took one step back.

 

“No!” Hermione cried and Blaise froze. “You stay the hell away from me, Zabini. Just… stay away.”

 

Once Blaise nodded, misery etched into every line of his posture, Hermione turned and fled.

 

“Well, that went well.” Pansy’s voice drifted out after her, taunting her.

 

 

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

 

 

“I know, I know, I look like a hag,” Hermione snapped as she collapsed into a chair across from Millie, who was staring at her in shock.

 

Millie blinked. “I don’t know if I would say that,” she replied drily.

 

Hermione sighed and rubbed a hand over her face. “You’re the only one, then.”

 

“I would hesitate to insult the hags,” Millie retorted and then smirked at her.

 

“Oh, ha ha. Let’s all make fun of the stupid Gryffindor,” Hermione snarled.

Millie frowned at her. “Hermione… what happened?”

 

“As if you didn’t know,” Hermione huffed indignantly.

 

Millie’s eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. “I don’t know, hence my asking you.”

 

“Blaise Zabini was… I don’t know, actually,” Hermione said. She rubbed her temples absently. “It’s all Pansy anyway.”

 

“Pansy?” Millie asked sharply. “What about Pansy?”

 

“It was Pansy. She… she got Blaise to… and I thought that he… and it was all a lie,” Hermione blurted out in an incoherent rage. Her cheeks were flushed and her hands moved wildly, but it was the hurt and grief in Hermione’s expressive eyes that gave her away.

 

Millie growled her hands clenched into fists in her lap. Hermione stopped speaking and watched her.

 

“I’m going to kill her,” Millie hissed.

 

Hermione blinked. “Um, thank you?”

 

“No, not because you think Zabini was playing you, which by the way is most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of in my entire life,” Millie snapped. “I’m going to kill her because she manipulated me into helping that bastard. And for making me _like_ a Gryffindor.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Hermione protested.

 

“Of course you don’t,” Millie snorted.

 

“What are you talking about?” Hermione demanded.

 

“Zabini and I,” Millicent began and then her lips twisted in distaste. “We don’t get along. He did some things that I haven’t quite forgiven him for yet. Pansy knows that. She knew that if she had come to me and asked me to help you as a favor for Zabini, that I would have laughed myself sick and then refused.”

 

Hermione couldn’t help the jealousy that flared in her chest at Millie’s words.

 

“You and he?” Hermione began, but she fell silent at Millie’s disgusted expression.

 

“Merlin, no. I play second fiddle to no one,” Millie said stiffly.

 

Hermione knew that the confusion she felt was all over her face. “What do you mean? How would you be a second fiddle?”

 

Millie sighed and seemed to slump in her seat. “Zabini’s been in love with the same witch since he was fourteen. He knows it — we all know it. Anyone whohas ever slept with Zabini was a fill in… a place-holder. I’m not willing to be anyone’s stand in,” she explained.

 

Was it possible for someone’s heart to break again? Hermione’s heart twisted in her chest, and she suspected that it could.

 

“Who?” She tried to ask, but her voice broke. Hermione cleared her throat, took a sip of water and tried again. “Who is she?”

 

A put-upon expression flickered across Millie’s face. The other witch sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes.

 

“It’s you, Hermione. He’s been in love with you for years. It’s a bit pathetic really, how gone he is,” Millie confessed.

 

“Me?” Hermione squeaked. She could feel heat rise in her cheeks.

 

“Yes, you,” Millie snapped. “I absolutely refuse to wax poetic about Zabini’s pathetic worship from afar. In fact, it would make me exceedingly happy if you could make him suffer for a decade or two.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

Unfortunately, Blaise was the sort of wizard who took a witch at her word. He stayed away from Hermione. In fact, as far as Hermione could determine Blaise had left the country. It was possible that he had gone to either Tunisia or to Italy—she knew that he had family estates in both countries—but he could be anywhere. With the Zabini money behind him, Blaise could be… _anywhere_.

“Granger.” The perfectly blank expression and the carefully correct nod of the head revealed absolutely nothing.

“Malfoy,” Hermione sighed.

“How may I help you?” Malfoy drawled coolly.

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. As a child at school, Malfoy had been an obnoxious prat, but after the war, none of that had mattered. Hermione and Harry had made a concerted effort to be polite… to be _fair_ … to Malfoy. The trials had revealed far more than Hermione had ever wanted to know about Malfoy’s home life. She had never pitied him, and she certainly didn’t feel sorry for him, but she understood why he had done the things he had done.

At some nebulous point after both wizards had joined the Auror Department, Malfoy had become Harry’s partner. Not exactly a friend, but someone that Hermione trusted enough to watch Harry’s back when she wasn’t around. Occasionally, Harry and Malfoy would go out for a beer after a case. Once or twice they’d even traded ‘my childhood was shittier than your childhood’ stories.

Somewhere in all of that, Hermione had gotten to point where she had liked Malfoy. She considered him her ‘not exactly a friend’ as well. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the fact that Malfoy’s best friend in the world was Zabini. All she knew was that talking to Malfoy was going to be a hell of a lot less repugnant than trying to talk to Parkinson.

“Millie told me everything,” she snapped in frustration.

Malfoy blinked, but that was the only reaction he gave her. Hermione growled under her breath.

“Why didn’t he ever say anything, or… I don’t know… ask me out himself?” She demanded.

Malfoy snorted at that and rolled his eyes at her.

“What?” Hermione glared at him.

“I’m sure that your friends would have loved that,” Malfoy sneered. “Their precious Gryffindor princess slumming it with junior Death Eater Slytherins.”

Hermione’s nose wrinkled and she shook her head at him. “Gryffindor princess? Are you mad? If anyone was Gryffindor’s princess, it would have been Ginny or Parvati or Lavender. Not me.”

“I see you’re not bothering to deny the junior Death Eater Slytherin bit,” Malfoy countered in an icy voice.

“I have no idea if that’s true or not,” Hermione protested. “I’ve never held any of that against _you_. Why would I judge Blaise any differently?”

“He worried about it,” Malfoy revealed reluctantly. “He didn’t want to, because he worried about what you might think, but in the end…”

“He did what he had to do for his friends,” Hermione finished softly. She gave him a slight smile. “I understand that.”

Malfoy flinched, and Hermione knew he was remembering things they both would rather forget.

“Just so,” he muttered. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You want to know where he is?”

“Of course.”

 

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

 

“Welcome to the Star of Tunis. How may I help you?” The receptionist recited happily.

Hermione smiled tightly. It had been a struggle to get an International Portkey on short notice, and she had been forced to take a 4 am slot. To add insult to injury, somehow her luggage had been waylaid, and all she had with her was her beaded bag.

“I’d like to book a room, please,” Hermione replied.

The receptionist gave her a slightly pitying look and shook her head regretfully. “I am so sorry, ma’am, but we are completely full.”

“Surely you must have one or two rooms free,” Hermione protested. Most hotels kept a couple of rooms clear in case of emergencies. “It doesn’t have to be fancy. I can stay in staff lodging—I’d be happy to pay the fee for a standard room.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the receptionist said with a miserable expression on her face.

“Look, it’s very important that I see Blaise Zabini. What if I left him a message—could you see that he gets it?” Hermione tried.

The receptionist blushed and shook her head. “We aren’t allowed to take messages for Mr. Zabini, ma’am. I—“

“Yes, yes, I know. You’re sorry,” Hermione snapped. “Look, can you just… just tell him that Hermione Granger tried to book a room? Can you do that much?”

“Is there a problem here?”

A tall, beautiful wizard that reminded Hermione painfully of Blaise moved behind the counter to stand next to the receptionist. Lovely. She was about to be forcibly removed from the resort that Blaise’s family owned in Carthage. She could see the headlines now.

“No,” Hermione snapped. “I was just leaving.”

She turned sharply and hurried through the lobby as quickly as she could.

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

The Dido was not as luxurious as the Star of Tunis, but Hermione wasn’t really surprised. She was willing to bet that the Zabini family took pride in making sure that their resorts were the most beautiful pieces of architecture in the world. Whether or not it was luxurious wasn’t one of the criteria that Hermione was using to judge the Dido. Whether or not its bar was well-stocked was one of her primary concerns at the moment. So far, the bartender hadn’t failed her.

After spending a self-indulgent evening feeling sorry for herself and drowning her sorrows in _boukha_ , Hermione dragged herself back to her room and collapsed in her bed. She didn’t even manage to undress and slip into the nightgown she’d purchased in the resort’s shop to replace the one that she’d packed that hadn’t arrived yet.

The next morning, a steady hammering in her skull woke her. Hermione groaned and tried to burrow into her bed. The hammering continued unabated, and Hermione realized that it wasn’t in her head at all. Someone was knocking on her door. Blearily, she pushed herself up off the bed and shuffled to the door. She pulled it open and squinted at the person on her doorstep.

“What?” She demanded irritably.

Blaise was standing there staring back at her. He was wearing perfectly tailored robes, and he was watching her with wary eyes. Hermione knew without even looking that ‘rat’s nest’ would be the most complimentary thing that anyone could say about her hair at the moment. Her eyes ached, so she imagined that they were red and swollen. She took a brief glance down at the stained, rumpled clothes that she’d slept in and sighed in defeat.

“May I come in?” Blaise asked.

“I… sure.” Hermione moved out of the way so that Blaise could enter her room.

“They said that you tried to get a room at the Star,” Blaise said stiffly.

“I did,” Hermione agreed.

“Why?” He demanded. He frowned at her. “You said—“

“I know what I said,” Hermione interrupted him with her own frown. “Millie told me everything.”

Terror flickered in Blaise’s eyes. “Look, you need to know something—Millie doesn’t like me. She’s been mad at me for 8 years now.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Hermione countered. “I mean that she told me that you…”

Saying ‘you’ve loved me since you were in school’ sounded unbelievably arrogant in Hermione’s head, and she figured that it would sound even worse out loud.

“That I love you,” Blaise finished for her. He sighed and his shoulders slumped slightly. “I’ve loved you for years.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Hermione demanded. “You were one of the few Slytherins that I spoke with at Hogwarts. We studied together in library after… when we all went back.”

“I was everything you were fighting against,” Blaise burst out angrily, his hands fisted at his sides.

Hermione snorted. “Hardly, unless you happen to have a legion of minions and pile of mouldering Horcruxes.”

“What?” Blaise blinked at her in surprise.

“I was fighting against _Voldemort_ ,” Hermione explained. “Malfoy’s your friend—hasn’t he told you anything about working with Harry?”

“Yes, but that’s different,” Blaise said stiffly.

“How is it different?” Hermione asked. “Why would I treat you with any less courtesy than I would Malfoy, who, if I might point out, tried to make my life miserable at Hogwarts.”

The miserable expression on Blaise’s face grew worse, and he made an abortive gesture.

“I don’t know,” he muttered.

“So you decided that the best way to get me to like you was to sabotage every date I had, and then show up to save the night and dazzle me with your charm?” Hermione asked drily.

Blaise gave her a half-smile. “Were you dazzled?”

“Yes,” Hermione admitted.

The half-smile faltered. “I’m sorry,” he said at last.

“For doing the most Slytherin thing I’ve ever heard of?” Hermione asked curiously. She laughed. “That would be like making Harry apologize every time he did his ‘saving people thing.’”

“So… you don’t hate me.” It was a statement, but there was a question in Blaise’s eyes.

“No, Blaise. I don’t hate you,” Hermione said in a small voice.

Blaise twitched when she said his name, and Hermione cringed.

“I was… _awful_ to you,” she said after a moment. “I thought… I thought that it was some kind of sick game—“

“No!” Blaise cried.

“I know,” Hermione soothed him, raising her hands before dropping them back to her sides. “I was just shocked, and frightened… and then I was so angry.”

“Why?” Blaise was standing so still that he might as well be carved from marble.

“Because I love you,” Hermione whispered. “I was in love with you, and I thought that… that it was all a lie.”

Then Blaise was moving toward her and his strong hands were cupping her jaw, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones. Those impossibly blue eyes pinned her where she stood. He allowed her to see the vulnerability that he normally kept hidden; the shy wonder that she could love him. His lashes swept down, brushing his cheeks and he bent down and kissed her.

The kiss was tentative and unsure; the delicate press of lip to lip. Blaise flicked the tip of his tongue at the corner of Hermione’s mouth—begging entrance. She parted her lips for him, and he eagerly mapped the contours of her mouth. Blaise nibbled on Hermione’s kiss-swollen lips and greedily swallowed her whimpers and gasps.

When Blaise finally relinquished Hermione’s mouth she was panting and dizzy.

“Hermione,” he whispered against her cheek. “I think I should leave before I do something I’ll regret.”

Hermione pulled back to look at his face. His pupils were blown wide and there was a dull flush barely visible under his caramel-coloured skin.

“I don’t think that there’s anything that you and I could do that I would regret,” Hermione told him.

Blaise groaned and let his forehead touch hers.

“Hermione, you have no idea what you’re saying.” His breath puffed against her lips.

“I’m 30, Blaise, not 13,” Hermione retorted. “If you still want to… continue, then I don’t see any problem with the both of us doing whatever we want.”

“I want to,” Blaise swore. He pulled back to look at her. “Are you still willing to accept me?”

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. “Isn’t that what I’ve been saying?”

“Okay then,” Blaise said almost to himself. He smirked down at her and wrapped his hands around her shoulders. “Okay.”


	6. Chapter 6

 

Delicate, fluttering kisses dusted across Hermione’s forehead, cheeks, and lips. Tentative, gentle caresses stroked her shoulders and down her back. Hermione opened her eyes to stare up at Blaise who was still staring at her with an expression of awed wonder. While Hermione loved the sweet, gentle kisses Blaise was scattering on her jaw… it wasn’t what she wanted… what she _needed_ right now. Maybe she needed to show Blaise what she wanted? Hermione took a step back from Blaise. The flare of disappointment in his eyes made her step forward to press a swift kiss to his chin before she stepped back again.

Quickly, Hermione reached down, grasped the hem of her sundress, and pulled it over her head. She made rapid work of her bra and shimmied out of her knickers. Blaise’s eyes had widened and he was staring at her with what appeared to be surprise mixed with a healthy dose of lust. Now that she was completely naked, Hermione moved toward Blaise. She pushed him toward the bed and when it hit the backs of his legs she pushed him down on to it. He fell with a soft _‘oof’_ and lay splayed on her bed, staring up at her with hungry eyes.

Before Blaise could move, Hermione crawled onto the bed and straddled him. The heat in his gaze intensified—scorching her with its focus—letting her know exactly how much Blaise wanted this, too. Hermione leaned forward and took his wrists in her hands, pressing them into the mattress; when his breathing hitched, she tightened her grip on his wrists.

“I want you,” she told him thickly. “I want this, but don’t… don’t treat me like I’m some kind of wilting flower.”

“What do you want me to do?” Blaise’s voice was raspy and his breathing hitched again when Hermione shifted on him. “I’ll do whatever you want, Hermione.”

“ _Everything_ ,” she told him with a smirk.

Blaise swallowed and her eyes watched his Adam’s apple move.

“I can do that,” he said faintly.

Then Hermione leaned down and caught Blaise’s full lower lip between her teeth. She bit down just hard enough to make the pain sharper than the pleasure. She smirked at his sharp inhalation and sucked on his bruised lip, soothing it with her tongue. Blaise moaned and Hermione took that as her cue to kiss him. Her kiss was nothing like the sweet, tender kisses they had just shared. Instead, Hermione used her lips and tongue and teeth to wring needy moans and breathy gasps from Blaise’s mouth.

Hermione rocked experimentally against the blatant evidence of Blaise’s desire. His hips thrusted up against her helplessly, and he groaned. With sure fingers, Hermione unbuttoned his robes, stripping him easily. Blaise pouted at her when she shifted off of him so that she could slip his clothes off of him, but he stayed on the bed the way that she’d left him. He had even placed his hands up above his head where Hermione had pressed them into the mattress. The skin around Blaise’s wrists was a little red, but she doubted that she was strong enough to make it bruise. This position displayed Blaise’s fading Dark Mark prominently.

“Hermione?” Blaise was watching her warily. Nervousness and uncertainty lurked in his eyes.

“Just admiring the view,” she purred as she moved toward him.

“I didn’t want to…,” Blaise broke off as Hermione straddled him once again—her wet core pressed into his belly. He sucked in a breath and his pupils widened as he watched her.

“I know,” Hermione whispered and pressed her lips to his.

Apparently, Blaise was more than willing to take his cues from her. He nipped at her lips and nibbled along her jaw, leaving sharp little bites that he soothed with his tongue. Hermione’s fingers tightened around Blaise’s wrists and he groaned against her skin.

Blaise’s skin was salty against her tongue as Hermione licked along his collarbone. She released his wrists so that she could work her way down his body. Her sharp teeth worried a chocolate brown nipple. She could feel the groan reverberate in his chest under her cheek, and she gave the same treatment to the other nipple.

The muscles of Blaise’s belly tensed as Hermione pressed open-mouthed kisses on his abdomen.

“Hermione.”

It was a broken plea for mercy. Hermione peeked up at Blaise over the sharp bone of his left hip. Blaise stared back at her, completely wrecked. His pupils were blown wide and his full lips were swollen and bruised-looking. He was panting for breath as her nails raked along his inner thigh.

With a wicked smirk, Hermione leaned forward and licked a teasing stripe up Blaise’s cock. His thighs quivered under her fingers and he made a strangled noise deep in his throat. Hermione carefully wrapped her fingers around the base of Blaise’s cock. He was watching her again, his eyes tracking her every move.

“How long can you last?” Hermione asked him curiously.

Blaise licked his lips. “As long as you need me to.”

Hermione smiled at him. “Good.”

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

Every single nerve in Blaise’s body was on fire; it was a slow, methodical form of torture, but he found himself hoping that it never ended. He had _no idea_ that Hermione could be like this. Sure, she was bossy and a bit of a control freak at Hogwarts, but he had never expected that would translate to the bedroom. If he had known… Merlin’s beard. Hermione’s lips were wrapped around his cock and her tongue was doing things he’d never even fantasized about in his wildest dreams. Thank Merlin her fingers were snug around the base of his cock—staving off the orgasm that was threatening to burst forth from his body. Not that he would give in to it. She had asked, and he had promised that he wouldn’t—and Blaise always kept his promises.

Hermione’s lips came off with an obscene, wet pop, and she moved over him—her fingers releasing the base of his cock. Blaise knew a moment’s relief that evaporated as Hermione slowly lowered herself on him. Tight, wet heat surrounded him, squeezing him deliciously. He couldn’t help the groan that escaped him when Hermione’s bum was snug against his groin.

“Blaise?” Hermione was completely still.

“’M good,” he muttered. He fisted his hands, but he didn’t move them from where she’d put them. He could still feel the warm heat of Hermione’s fingers wrapped tightly around his wrists, holding him just where she wanted him.

Taking him at his word, Hermione began to roll her hips against him. He couldn’t help the convulsive thrust of his own hips, rolling against hers. Hermione moaned her approval, throwing her head back and exposing the long line of her throat. Soon they were both moving together frantically—hips swiveling together in a synchronicity that made Blaise’s eyes roll back in his head.

“Touch me,” Hermione panted as she rocked above him.

Blaise slid his hands up her thighs, his fingers digging into her hips and holding her in place as he thrust up into her as hard as he could. Hermione cried out in pleasure and bit her lower lip. With one hand he tweaked her nipples, pulling and twisting at them to add just enough pressure. Hermione began to babble, urging him on. Keeping one hand on her hip, he let his other hand drift down until he was brushing against the damp curls where their bodies joined. Hermione gasped and stared at him with wide eyes.

“Do it,” she hissed and bit her lower lip again.

Slowly, Blaise slid his thumb down through Hermione’s curls until he brushed against her clit. She cried out again and he could feel her walls tighten around him. Blaise clenched his jaw against the sparks going down his spine. He could feel his balls tighten and his fingers tightened on Hermione’s hip.

“Now,” Hermione rasped.

Planting his feet flat on the bed, Blaise thrust up into Hermione while his thumb worked frantic circles over her clit. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as Hermione moved against him, her hips working in counterpoint to his. Hermione’s breath came in soft, panting little gasps that went straight to his cock. When her walls started to flutter around him, Blaise was ready to sob in relief. He could feel his back arch off the bed as he came with a shout. Hermione collapsed on his chest, panting into his neck.

“Hermione?” Blaise asked cautiously. He could feel her smile against his skin.

“Mmm?”

It was more of a purr than anything else and his cock gave a half-hearted twitch of interest. He stroked a hand down her back lazily and basked in the feel of Hermione pressed against him. Whether or not he had any personal kinks had never really occurred to Blaise. He was willing to try anything at least once if Hermione was a part of the equation. Perhaps it might be fitting to say that he had one kink: Hermione.

“You all right, love?” He murmured into her hair.

Hermione stretched against him like a cat and propped herself up so that she could look at him.

“Thou, sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus[1],” Hermione whispered, and then she leaned down to press her lips to his.

The corner of Blaise’s lips twitched.

“Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy,” Blaise replied his lips moving under hers.

Hermione pulled back and blinked at him in surprise. Blaise shrugged underneath her.

“I paid attention to the books you read,” he explained. He smirked at her—an expression of smug satisfaction. “Still dazzled?”

Hermione tried to muffle her laughter and ended up snorting. She shook her curls at him. “Yes, actually.”

“Good,” Blaise purred. “I plan on dazzling you for the rest of your life.”

“Do you now?” Hermione shot him a glance of fond exasperation.

“You can count on it,” Blaise said firmly.

A soft smile curved Hermione’s mouth and the look she bestowed on him made his heart swell.

“I will.”

 

 

 

 

[1] “The Sun Rising” by John Donne. Blaise’s response is the next line from the same poem.


End file.
